Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  But with all he’d done, he could never become a nobleman.

  And as such, he would never be able to win a place in the lady’s heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Do not punish Sir Vernon,” Morwenna ordered as she and the captain of the guard sat before the fire in the great hall. It was obvious Alexander was irritated, angry with his sentry, and, she supposed, himself. “It was my fault. I plotted to fool him,” she admitted. “I was awake and waited until he’d gone to the latrine before slipping into the room.”

  Alexander looked at her, then glanced away. “ ’Tis my duty to see that you are safe, m’lady,” he reminded her. “How can I do this if you trick the guards I’ve assigned to you?”

  “ ’Tis not your fault.”

  “Then whose?”

  “My own.”

  He frowned then, his expression as dark as midnight. “There is another issue here. If you can fool my guards so easily, then others may as well. Others who mean you or this keep harm.”

  “Punishing Sir Vernon will not change that.”

  He raised an eyebrow in dispute. “You don’t believe in making an example of him?”

  “Not when I was the one who duped him.”

  “Ah . . . ‘duped him.’ My point exactly. One should not be able to ‘dupe’ a guard in my service. I’m sorely disappointed in Sir Vernon.”

  “And in me?” she asked, watching denial form beneath his beard. “Do not lie to me, Sir Alexander.”

  “I would hope that if you wanted to do anything that is the slightest bit unsafe, you would confide in me so that I see that you are protected,” he said, his gaze locking with hers again.

  “You worry too much, Sir Alexander.”

  “You pay me to worry.”

  “I pay you to protect the castle.”

  “And yourself,” he said, taking a long draft of wine, his eyes for a second betraying him and conveying emotions he quickly disguised.

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  Clearing his throat, he set down his cup. “Sir Vernon’s penance, if you will, is to spend the next fortnight on the east wall. Afterwards . . . we’ll see.”

  “Would you send me to the wall walk as well?”

  He grinned, a slash of white teeth showing in his beard. “Nay, m’lady, I fear I would have to lock you in the highest tower and keep the key on a chain around my neck.”

  “At least ’tis not the dungeon.”

  His dark eyes sparked and she thought he was about to tease her further and say he’d love to cage her behind the iron bars of the cells within that lowest level of the keep, but he only shook his head, his smile fading, the joke between them dissipating in the air as the physician slipped down the stairs and hurried into the chamber.

  “If I may have a word, m’lady?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Sir Alexander was on his feet quickly, his backbone snapping into a stiff, authoritative stance. Half a head taller than the physician, he stared down at the man but seemed slightly embarrassed at being caught smiling and drinking wine with the lady of the keep. “I’ll take care of the situation, m’lady,” he said with a quick bow of his head.

  “I think, Captain, you should hear this as well,” Nygyll said.

  “You have news of the man?” she asked, waving both Nygyll and Alexander onto the stools near the fire. A boy added wood to the logs already burning in the grate and a silent girl poured another mazer of wine after meeting Morwenna’s gaze and receiving a nod.

  “The patient is improving.”

  “Is he?” She couldn’t help but feel a bit of elation. “So soon.”

  “He’s a strong man.”

  “Aye.” She’d seen his muscular arms and torso for herself, sensed that he was a warrior of sorts despite his tattered clothes. Alexander’s expression was grim and he fidgeted as if he was in a hurry to be off.

  “We’ve all heard the rumors,” Nygyll continued, studying his hands, “that the patient might be Carrick of Wybren.”

  “ ’Tis just that, gossip and supposition, because of the ring he wears.”

  “The ring is missing,” Nygyll said softly.

  “What?” Morwenna froze.

  “I said, the ring is not on the man’s finger.”

  “But it was there last night. . . .”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes. Late. I saw it with my own eyes.” Or had she? When she’d looked over his bruised body, she’d searched for moles or scars or . . . Surely the ring had been on his finger. If it had been missing, she would have noticed. Wouldn’t she?

  Nygyll must have read the doubts in her eyes.

  “You must be mistaken,” Sir Alexander cut in. “The prisoner, er, patient has been under guard from the moment he was brought to Calon.”

  “You’re certain the ring is gone?” Morwenna asked the physician.

  “You can see for yourself.”

  Shooting to her feet, Morwenna was across the great hall within seconds. Sir Alexander was but a step behind her with Nygyll on his heels.

  Morwenna flew up the staircase, ignored the guard, threw open the door to Tadd’s chamber, and found the black-and-blue man where she’d left him last night. The patient, as hideous as ever, hadn’t moved. He lay upon the bed, his near-black hair curling over his bruised forehead, the crusts of blood dark against his battered flesh.

  Quickly she walked to the far side of the bed, where his right hand was hidden beneath the covers. Without a thought, she tossed back the blankets and saw his fingers, the knuckles swollen and cracked, the fingernails broken.

  As Nygyll had said, the man’s hand was bare, the third finger of his right hand lacking the ring.

  Her stomach turned over. “How could anyone remove it?” she demanded. “His fingers are swollen, his joints . . . Dear God.” She saw it then, flesh ripped from his finger, his knuckle red with fresh blood.

  “The finger is broken; the joint as well,” Nygyll said as he walked into the room behind Sir Alexander.

  In her mind’s eye Morwenna witnessed the gold band being ripped from the unconscious man. “Holy Mother,” she whispered.

  Alexander viewed the still man’s damaged hand. “ ’Tis not possible,” he said, though without any conviction as he stared at the bloodied evidence.

  The physician shook his head. “The sentry failed.” Before the captain of the guard could defend his men, Nygyll added, “Whoever wanted the ring was desperate and had to work fast.” His gaze landed on the beaten man’s discolored face. “He is lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Morwenna repeated, her stomach roiling.

  “That the finger wasn’t severed.” Nygyll’s mouth tightened as he picked up the man’s bloodied hand. “Whoever wanted the damned thing could easily have sawed off the finger beneath his joint.”

  “For the mercy of God, who would do such a thing?” she whispered, feeling herself blanch.

  “I know not.” Nygyll’s gaze traveled to the larger man standing next to him.

  Alexander’s jaw slid to one side and his eyes thinned as he looked around the room. “On my word, m’lady,” he vowed, his eyes grave and burning with a quiet fury, “we will find the bastard who did this.”

  “Mayhap you should question the guard,” Nygyll suggested.

  Alexander skewered the physician with an uncompromising glare. “Mayhap you should do your job, physician, and let me handle mine.”

  “Mayhap you should see that yours is done properly!” Nygyll answered hotly and then turned to Morwenna. “Obviously someone got past the sentry, entered the room, and then ripped the damned ring from the patient’s finger and crept back into the night. No one, not even the guard, saw the culprit, and the ring is missing. We are fortunate that nothing else happened, for just as easily whoever it was could have slit this man’s throat.” He motioned to the patient and then turned his back upon Alexander, as if the soldier wasn’t worth consulting.

  Noticing a serving girl poking her head
into the room, Nygyll lifted an arm and snapped his fingers. “You there, Mylla, stop your gawking and be useful.” His pursed lips were white around the edges, his nostrils flared in agitation. “I’ll need hot water, fresh linens, and yarrow for the wound . . . oh, and some comfrey. Send someone to the apothecary—that’s right, comfrey and yarrow. Do you understand?” As the girl nodded and hastened off, Nygyll turned his gaze toward Morwenna again. “Now, m’lady, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice losing its hard, imperious edge. “I do need to tend to my patient.”

  “Of course.” She cast one last glance at the wounded man, and the knots in her stomach tightened. Who would do such a thing? Why? Was the gold crest of Wybren the reason for the stranger being attacked? Who would want it? Its value would only matter to members of Castle Wybren unless the ring was melted down. Or could it be that the ring was a trophy, a little prize to remind the attacker of how he had somehow duped the owner? Had the assailant returned and finished his act of thievery?

  Then why not, as Nygyll suggested, just lop off the finger and be quick about it?

  Muttering under his breath, Sir Alexander was but a step behind her as she marched toward the stairs.

  “Who would do this?” she demanded.

  “I know not. But I will find out.” Alexander’s voice was stern as steel. “Whoever did this is making a point, showing us all that he can move through the keep at will. He wants us to know about him; he’s flaunting his power. Elsewise, why not just kill the patient and be done with it?”

  Something inside her curdled and bumps of fear crawled across the backs of her arms. “He’s trying to prove that the man is vulnerable.”

  “Not just the patient, but everyone in the keep,” Alexander said soberly.

  “How could anyone have gotten past the guard . . .” she began, then remembered how easily she had duped Sir Vernon.

  “ ’Tis exactly what I intend to find out.”

  Voices calling out orders, tinkling laughter, and the scrape of table legs sliding over the floor rose to greet them.

  “Morwenna!” Bryanna came rushing in through the open door near the bottom of the stairs. Catching sight of her sister, she hurried up the few steps separating them. “Is it true? Did someone really steal Sir Carrick’s ring?”

  “We don’t know that the patient is Carrick of Wybren,” Alexander cut in.

  “But the ring?” she demanded. “It’s missing? Someone got past the guard?”

  “So it seems,” Morwenna said, irritated, as she continued to the bottom of the stairs and walked through the great hall, where boys were adjusting the tables and benches and Alfrydd, the steward, was surveying their work with a practiced, if doubting eye.

  Near the grate, Dwynn was tending the fire, tossing in chunks of mossy oak that caused the flames to crackle and spit. His gaze followed the tiny sparks as they climbed toward the high ceiling.

  Mort, resting in the corner, gave out a soft yip as he rose to his feet and, wagging his tail, approached. Noticing the dog, Dwynn cast a glance at Morwenna and scrambled up. Nervously he rubbed the sawdust and slivers from the knees of his breeches as he turned back to the flames. “M’lady,” he said, his head hanging a bit, as if he’d been caught stealing from Cook’s larder. “I was jest . . . I mean . . . the fire . . . it needed—”

  “It’s fine, Dwynn,” she assured him, and a smile stretched from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, though her mind was elsewhere. Dwynn, satisfied, grabbed an empty basket and headed outside. Morwenna paid him little attention, as Bryanna was still demanding more information.

  Though she lowered her voice, Bryanna was flush with excitement, her eyes glowing with exhilaration. “Tell me,” she insisted. “Carrick, er, the patient, he’s unharmed?” As if realizing her words bordered on the ridiculous, she added swiftly, “I mean, no one hurt him any further.”

  “Not that we know. Nygyll is with him now.”

  “I’ll alert the sheriff, m’lady,” Alexander said, “and report back to you.”

  “Good.”

  With a tip of his head, he strode out the main door, pausing only to say something to the guard. The man listened, nodded curtly, and straightened his spine as Alexander disappeared, the door banging shut behind him.

  “What does it all mean?” Bryanna asked, tugging at Morwenna’s sleeve. “First the man is found beaten, near death, perhaps ambushed. And then while he’s unconscious, under guard in this very castle, he’s robbed!”

  “I know not,” Morwenna admitted.

  “Do you think the person or people who beat him live here?” She gestured with one hand, indicating the entire castle.

  “I don’t even know if the ring was truly his. He could have stolen it.”

  “Why didn’t whoever attacked him and left him for dead take it then? During the fight?”

  “Mayhap he was scared off.” Looking over her sister’s shoulder, Morwenna noticed that Dwynn had returned to the fire. He now squatted near the iron dogs supporting the back log, poking at the embers and, she suspected, straining to hear every word of the conversation. From the corner of her eye Morwenna watched as he jabbed the iron poker hard at a stubborn piece of wood, his face reflecting the gold light from the flames. He seemed so childish and innocent that Morwenna doubted her assumptions about him. Why consider him calculating?

  As if he felt her eyes upon him, he slid a glance in her direction. For a heartbeat, she thought she noticed a shadow passing behind his eyes before he turned away again, his childlike demeanor restored as he stared once more at the greedy flames.

  “Maybe someone else stole the ring,” Bryanna was saying, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Someone else?” Morwenna repeated, steering her sister out of the great hall, away from hidden ears and prying eyes.

  “The thief!” Bryanna said in exasperation. “He could be among us even now. Any one of the servants or the merchants or even the guards could be a traitor.” As if to add conviction to her words, she lifted an eyebrow, then watched as a maid with an overflowing basket of laundry headed for the stairs.

  “You’re making more of it than there is,” Morwenna said discouragingly, all the while shepherding her sister to the stairs leading to the solar.

  But Bryanna’s eyes were bright with the mystery and excitement of the theft. That was the trouble with the girl; Bryanna rarely understood how dire a situation might be. “I think mayhap you’re not making enough of it.”

  Oh, how wrong you are, Morwenna thought but said only, “Time will tell. Sir Alexander will locate the thief.” Morwenna hoped her words were filled with more conviction than she felt. What did she really know of the inhabitants of this keep? Bryanna was right. Most of the servants and peasants who resided here understood far more about Calon than did she. She’d heard the rumors that the castle was haunted, that ghosts could be heard creeping through the walls, but she didn’t believe them, even when she herself had felt the weight of unseen eyes upon her. ’Twas her mind playing tricks upon her, nothing more.

  Or so she tried to convince herself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From his hiding spot behind the beehives, Runt, the spy, eyed the main door of the keep. Two guards flanked the great oaken portal and they were both wide awake, their gazes sweeping the darkened inner bailey. Fortunately for Runt, the night was heavy, fog clinging to the crenels, hiding the towers and wisping around the smaller buildings within Calon’s thick walls.

  Surely there was some way to gain entrance to the great hall, he thought, wondering how to slip inside without being seen. He was an ordinary-looking man and enough people knew him as a local peasant that no one paid him much notice during the day. But at night he would stand out, and the guards, ever vigilant, had been even more so since finding the man who’d been attacked in the forest nearby.

  Runt itched to see the wounded stranger with his own eyes, but so far he’d be
en thwarted. If the rumors proved true and the wounded man was indeed Carrick—

  A gloved hand flattened over his mouth, cutting off his scream.

  Another held a blade to his throat. “Shhh!” his attacker hissed into his ear. “If you value your pathetic life, don’t make a move.”

  Runt’s knees turned to water and he nearly pissed himself.

  The blade pressed into his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was drawing his last breath.

  “I know why you’re here,” the voice, raspy and faint, as if disguised, said. “And I’ll tell you what you want to know. Aye, the man who was found is Carrick of Wybren. Aye, he is near death. And, aye, it is imperative that you tell the man who sent you of him.”

  Runt wanted to argue, to lie that he was just an innocent, but the razor-sharp edge of the knife kept him from saying a word. “Tell your master that you found this out from the servants. Make no mention of our meeting, for if you do, I will know of it, and I will slice your throat so quickly, you will not know what happened until you see your own blood pouring from your neck.”

  Runt’s Adam’s apple bobbed and sweat rolled down his forehead.

  “Understand?” the voice demanded, and before Runt could answer he felt warm breath against his ear. “Understand?” A prick of the knife, just enough to pierce his skin.

  Runt nodded quickly.

  “Good. Since you found your way in here, I trust you’ll find your way out past the guards. Do not fail me,” his attacker warned, “or I swear I will hunt you down and slaughter you.”

  The blade and hand were quickly removed as his attacker hurried away through the rising mist. Runt slumped against the dormant hives and slowly let out his breath.

  So he’d been discovered.

  Was known to be a spy.

  And yet was left to live.

  For now.

  He swallowed back his fear and straightened. Who was it who had caught him, who had stolen upon him so quietly that he’d not heard so much as a step? Had it been a man or a woman? Runt knew not, nor did he care. It mattered not. What did matter was that he make his way out of Calon before whoever it was who had just left him returned.